


Principled

by emmadelosnardos



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 02:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmadelosnardos/pseuds/emmadelosnardos
Summary: A jilted Dwight returns to Cornwall after Caroline refuses to see him in London.





	Principled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/gifts).



> A companion piece to my other Carolight fic, "Unprincipled."

>  Dear Dwight:
> 
> Yes, I received your letters. I am glad that the choice you made was of salve to Ross Poldark and the other smugglers. But the choice – your choice – was made before you ever knew this man was an informer. So it cannot affect mine. Do you not see that? I am very, very sorry. It is better for us both that it should be so.
> 
> Caroline

_Warleggan,_ Book Three, Chapter One. By Winston Graham.

* * *

Dwight had put off responding to Caroline's letter until he returned from London five days later. In his own home, rude cottage though it was, Dwight could at last begin to think over the meaning of the events of the last week.

She had such a cutting way with words, Caroline did. It was one of the things that had first drawn Dwight to her: her decisiveness, her clarity, her intelligence. And who was to say that she was wrong? As she had said, Dwight had chosen his patients instead of her – but _why_ couldn’t she also see that, as a physician, certain responsibilities must always come first? – and that they didn’t mean he loved her any less? He had tried to explain that to her, but even Dwight could see that she, the bride, deserved at least to come first on her wedding day. And so he respected, as best he could (the current tumbler of brandy aside), her decision. Oh, how he _respected_ her – _that_ at least he wanted her to know. He wanted her to know that he would not attempt to persuade her further, that he would take her letters as her last word on the subject – Heaven knew he had already done his best, in his letters, to make her see his side of things. And she would not, and so he must yield, yet again, to Caroline Penvenen’s wishes. 

Dwight lit a fire in his hearth and rearranged some surgical instruments on the table. He would answer her, but not yet; he needed to think first, to calm his rage and give her the kind of gracious response that she deserved, when all he had wanted was to return to London and refuse to accept her refusal. But he would be a better man than that, because he loved Caroline and knew that becoming a menace to her would help neither of them. So Dwight had come home to Cornwall, to nurse his wounds and think over what to do next, to ponder where and how they had gone wrong.

Dwight had told Caroline of his affair with Keren; in that he had been scrupulously honest and had hid nothing of himself. And Caroline had forgiven him that, had urged him to show the same charity towards himself which he so often shown others. She was forgiving of his past but not of his present profession, he reflected; for that, she could not forgive him. And he would not be her pet! – Nor could he imagine she would want him that way, not when she had fallen in love with the country doctor, trailing scrofula and pestilence in his wake. What did she want, then? The man, without the doctor? He could not put aside his profession any more than she could put aside her wish to be first in his heart. And for this he respected her, though he wished he could send such respect to the devil where it belonged, show up upon her London doorstep a further time, renounce his rural practice and put himself in her hands. But he knew – they _both_ knew – that neither would be happy if he were cut off from all that was important to him. She had imagined a romantic life in renouncing her fortune, in following him wherever he would go – but she, too, had proven herself unable to give up her ideals. They were too alike, Caroline and he, and Dwight would respect (esteem, adore, worship, obey) her to the end of his days.

What else could he have told her to convince her otherwise? She knew something of his upbringing among poor gentlefolk, but she knew scant details. Should he have told her more? He could have told her, for instance, of his mother’s long, consumptive death, the scarcity of good medical care even to be had with all of his grandfather’s waning wealth and connections; he could have told her of Loveday, his older sister, and her death in childbirth when he was merely eleven; of his brother Todd’s efforts to keep the family from poverty by joining the Army, and of the dark dreams he shared with Dwight when he returned from America, before Todd took his own life. Caroline was young, gloriously young, innocent of such troubles, Dwight thought. He knew she was an orphan but she had never shared the circumstances which had made her dependent on her uncles, and when he reflected upon what little he knew of her own childhood, he felt deep sadness and regret that they had never shared such things when they had pretended such love for each other. What was love, when these histories were not known? How much did he ever know of Caroline, then, beyond the few words and letters she had given him? He had seen more than she could know, he reminded himself: in her love for her dog, he recognized the desperate search for affection that only another orphan could understand. It was her appeal to his love for an animal that had made him pause an instant and accept her dog, and then its mistress, as his patients. And how he had suffered from the charge! How he had suffered, in loving her and losing her!

Dwight had imagined their wedding night often, and oftener still now that it was never to be. He had imagined it even as he was attending Rosina that last, fateful time, setting her leg aright when his whole being longed to be riding in the dark to Killewarren to join Caroline in her carriage. He imagined their wedding night even as he confronted Charlie Kempthorne, even as he lit the brush fire to alert the smugglers, even as he rode, frantically, that final time to Killewarren and learned that she had left with her uncle for London. He imagined it now, sitting by his dark fire, her smudged letters on his knees, and felt the tears welling in his eyes. Oh, how he _respected_ her! – When he would have done more than that, would have pulled the dress from her shoulders, would have kissed that serpentine neck! He would have shown her those pleasures that he knew, from her eyes and her mouth and her kisses, she would have welcomed from him! And what of it? Caroline was gone, and he was here in Cornwall still; alone with his first love, his patients, as she had said.

His patients might love him, but not with the love that he yearned for. He was almost thirty and any other man in his position might have taken a wife before now, even counting his poverty, which was not much of an impediment in dusty Cornwall. If only he didn’t have this damned habit of falling in love with his patients! If only, Dwight reflected, he had known some women who were _not_ his patients; if only he had had the life that his ancestors had wished for him. Instead, _this_ Enys was no high sheriff, no fighter against the Armada; _this_ Enys was just what the name meant, an island in the old Cornish some of his patients still spoke. Alone, abandoned, isolated, bereft of the companionship he most desired, apparently to spend the rest of his days in such a state…

Was Caroline merely an infatuation? This Dwight had often wondered, mistrusting his own sentiments after the sorrowful affair with Keren, mistrusting that anything he loved could remain whole when so often his love had ended in wreckage, abandonment, death. In that fear, at least, he was spared: Caroline was no doubt hearty and hale in her society life, returned to the milieu she knew best, while he was as he had always been, alone and separate, neither entirely poor nor entirely gentile, betwixt his patients and the landed classes. He was used to such a life, and doubted that Caroline would ever have grown accustomed to it. _Her_ world was not the world of illness, of dire straights, of privation and small pleasures. _She_ was used to more: the admiration of all, the right to beauty and abundance, the assumption of her place in the world. Would they ever have been happy, coming from such different beginnings?

She had sensed his hesitation about the elopement, had done her best to convince him that it was the only solution, but still he had felt uneasy about the underhandedness of it all. How he would have liked to wed her openly, with her uncles’ approval! – _that_ , he had perceived, was the best way. Was it the only way? Had he, with his eagerness to attend to his patients that night, managed things in such a manner that he had had his _own_ way after all? Caroline had nearly accused him of such, but had stopped short in her fine, courteous words, alluding merely to events as they had presented themselves: his actions that night spoke louder than his promises to her.

And _there_ was the rub: Caroline was right. Their separation was due not so much to her uncles’ protests as to their own characters. _She_ would not play second fiddle to his patients; _Dwight_ could not be a society pet. How had he ever imagined otherwise?

He drank another tumbler-full of brandy and kicked at the fire.

They had both imagined otherwise. They had both, he fervently believed, imagined themselves capable of being other than they were, all for the sake of love. They both believed themselves ready to be transformed by such love – _she_ was ready, was she not, to forsake the better part of her expected fortune? And _he_ was ready, Dwight had thought, to trade one set of patients for another – all for the sake of Caroline! But in the end, neither one was so noble nor so unselfish. Caroline preferred to wait out her uncles’ rage in hope that they would eventually reconcile themselves to her actual marriage, urging an elopement upon him, while Dwight had chosen, in deed, his Cornish patients to the resignation of Bath. Neither had been willing, it seemed, to take that final step required for compromise, and so they remained as they had been, solitary in their values, merely islands in a great sea.

Yet still she was the woman for him. Dwight hated her intransigence and at once loved her for it, as he had loved her refusal, at first, to admire him for his good deeds, had both loved and hated her fine clothes and haughty bearing, both wanting her the way she was and wanting her to submit to him, admit to him of her failings. He treated her as if she was still his patient, someone to be cured of her misperceptions as he had cured Rosina of her bum knee, and she refused to be treated. How could he heal a woman who would not admit of her ailment? How could he love a woman who would not see him for who he was?

He might as well ask himself the same question: how could _he_ love someone if he did not see her for who she was? So, he tried to reassure himself, in respecting her decision he was respecting the person she was, and was thus loving her in the best way possible. That this way was lonely and unforgiving – well, had he not himself to blame? For his own stubbornness? Caroline was not the only stubborn one here…

Still he imagined how their wedding night might have been. Not an illicit, stolen night in a smuggler’s inn, legal in name but not much else, but a night sanctioned by her family and his friends. Dwight imagined how Caroline would have looked in the bright light of St. Mary’s church, her face subdued as Ray Penvenen led her down the aisle. It was all he could do to not clench his fists as he imagined her face turned up to him at the altar, her lips red and slightly parted as she said her vows to him, his own mouth trembling as he made his promises to her. He would lead her out of the church on his arm, catch the eye of Ross as they walked down the aisle together. And then would come the interminable reception and dinner, the unsolicited advice on medical practices in Bath from William Penvenen, the customary toasts and well-wishing from friends and foes alike: all of these customs that Dwight would have scorned a year ago and that seemed, alone by his fire, like the greatest gift Life could have bestowed upon him.

He tried to imagine himself finally alone with Caroline after such an event, and admitted that his imagination was strained. Would she continue her coy, perverse teasing of him when admitted to private quarters? Or would he see, at last, some of the vulnerability he had suspected of her? He knew she was a virgin, that much she had told him, and it would have shocked him to hear otherwise. His reasoning mind knew it was a great responsibility to divest a maid of her innocence, and yet Caroline was as far from morally innocent as any young woman had a right to be. How would it go, then? Would she tell him how to loosen her stays? Would she instruct him on every touch, every caress? Or would she let him, finally, be the expert in anatomy?

He wished her both docile and rebellious, tamed and tamer. He almost wished, in his fantasy, for a more equal station: either that they were coming together as innocents both, clumsy and fretful and desirous to please and be pleased, or that she was an experienced widow, as forward in her likes and dislikes as any man. It felt strange to imagine her as needing any instruction in lovemaking, yet part of him thrilled at thinking that he would be the one to do it. How sensitive, how responsive she had always been to his kisses! How ready she had seemed, to turn herself over at the drop of a hat had they not always been together out-of-doors! What would it be like to be the first to arouse such a woman, the first to bring her to pleasure and find his pleasure in her? The thought had haunted him and still would not let go of his mind, even when he knew he would likely not be the man to do so. _How_ he had wanted to kiss her neck, to fondle her breasts, to pull her down to the bed with him and watch her take her pleasure! It was almost too much, to imagine Caroline’s bare skin, to imagine her lovely figure underneath him. Her hips were so slender, her shoulders so sharp; was she boyish, underneath her fine red riding coat, or were her curves as perfectly placed as he had imagined? Such a passionate woman! What a waste, to marry her off to a baronet or another MP or whatever her uncles had in mind for her! What a waste, when _he_ might have –

Dwight sank full depth into their imagined wedding night. He pictured Caroline removing her bonnet, freeing her hair of its ribbons, urging his help to loosen her stays even as she pretended at sophisticated indifference. How he would have shown her! He would have made her lose that self-satisfied smirk for once, pressed tight to the bed as he removed her clothing piece by piece. He might spend a minute on her silk-clad feet, to distract her and give himself a moment for composure. Dwight did not want Caroline to see how he trembled at removing her shoes, her stockings, nor how his fingers hesitated at the ties of her garter, pulling down her drawers. He imagined Caroline reaching out for his belt, loosening it and then helping him out of his drawers and shirtsleeves. He was shirtless, then, and naked as she was, and he would lay himself down softly upon all of her body, his chest to her chest, his legs entwined with hers, to continue kissing her glorious red mouth. He could imagine the soft pink of Caroline’s nipples, imagine the raising of goose bumps on her arms as he kissed his way down her neck and breasts. He could picture her head shaking from side to side, thrown back in ecstasy, little cat noises from her as he kissed her ribs and took a nipple into his mouth. He could see them naked together like the day they were born, intoxicated by skin and scent and the contrast of his hairier, weightier body against her smooth, petite frame.

After that, he could go no further. He could not, did not want to imagine her opening her legs further, welcoming him in by the shifts in her movements and the kisses at his throat, turning her head away in shyness when he reached between her legs and caressed her wet cunt, opening her further with his fingers as he watched her face for cues. He did not want to think about how her head would loll as he touched her, or how she might raise her hips to get closer to his fingers, chiding him with a tsk-tsk when he took his fingers away from her to grasp his own penis. It was a painful pleasure to imagine looking down on her open, glistening thighs, to watch her watching him take his penis in one hand and, with the other, hold her folds wide so that he might enter her as gently as possible. Her mouth would open then, perfectly round and generous, and he would stroke her neck and kiss her lips again and again before lifting his chest off hers, supporting himself with his forearms so as to not put too much weight on her slender hips, as he began to deepen his penetration of her, sliding as deeply as he could go. She might shudder and cry out as he reached her cervix, might desperately bite her lips with the pain and the desire to keep back her cry, to show him she was brave. He did not want to think of her in pain, did not want to think of how he would rest there for a moment, joined to the hilt with Caroline, before beginning the slow, steady thrusts that would bring both of them to completion. It might take him a few strokes to find his stride, to find that perfect rhythm which pleased both partners, but once he found it and she agreed, he would work her until they came apart, together, crying out and seeking reassurance in each other’s eyes. And what love he would feel for her, that first time – what determination to do well by her, to not disappoint her! He brought little enough, materially speaking, to their union; he would have prided himself on his ability to bring her pleasure, at the least, to show her in that respect how much he cared for her. But in this he had been robbed, _this_ ending was never to be – and he was such a fool, a willing fool, to make love to a phantasm when he had not been brave enough to take the woman herself. Her voice, her gaze, her lips on his – these he both imagined and wished to forget, if forgetting meant forgoing this pain of the imagination, this armchair lover.

He should not have gone there in his imagination, he chided himself. A man of principle would not have used Caroline as the goad to his own arousal. Dwight had wished always to respect her above all, and in this he had failed as well. It would anger her, he thought, if she had known what he was dreaming about when they rode together, when he received her letters, when he pressed her hand in his; she would be angry and disappointed to know that behind his fine words and ideals there was always this terrible thing between them, this memory of Eden, the red apple of desire and the snake’s dance, the man yearning for a woman.

He pulled paper and pen to his lap and wrote: 

> Dear Caroline:
> 
> I see that you will not be swayed. Very well; I will respect your wishes, though it pains me grievously to have lost you. I will not trouble you further in London, and you know where I reside should you ever be in need of a friend or companion.
> 
> The folly in this is all mine. I hope you will, with time, come to forgive your poor
> 
> Doctor Enys.


End file.
